The Madness of Aspasia

Abhorr'd forever be his name
Who snares for Candour lays,
And branding innocence with shame,
The Virgin's faith betrays.

Who practiced in destructive art,
Her thoughts sincere arraigns,
And tho his image fills her heart,
Of cold neglect complains.

Then, while She feels the quick alarm,
Seizes th' unguarded time,
Honour and Love's emotion warm,
And glories in his crime.

Such Cynthio and Aspasia were,
In pride of earliest youth
A victim sunk the generous Fair
To his dissembled truth.

Pall'd by possession, tho her soul
Was worth a kingdom's price,
Yet all it's charms could not controul
The harden'd slave of vice.

Tho on her bosom well he knew
What pangs would urge their force,
Pangs, which their sharper tortures drew
From Virtue's native source.

But Vengeance sure, tho now defied,
Shall harrow up his mind,
That mercy which his soul denied,
Shall be from him confin'd.

The grief which to her Sire befell,
His agony's excess,
No pen, no other tongue can tell,
A Father only guess.

Let us, said He, my Friends proceed
To where th' afflicted strays,
Oh! may our cares at least succeed
To give some transient ease.

Let us her bosom's rankling wound
With tender pity fill,
Or sit in silent woe around,
As the mute mourner, still.

But lo! She darts across the green!
Spare, spare my tortured sight—
Before my eyes this hour had seen
Why closed they not in night?

Her face! I view distraction there—
I read it in her eye;
That glance bespeaks, and that wild air
Extremest misery.

She opes her pallid lips—oh worth
O ruin'd excellence!
Thy unconnected thoughts pour forth,
And reave me of my sense.

I've been to yonder wood to gather flowers,
There on a bank so steep,
I saw him lying fast asleep;
I stole on softly to the bowers,
No ear
My silent step could hear:
For why should I awake,
Or cause him from his dream to start?
But a fierce snake
My footsteps did pursue,
I nothing of it knew,
And springing on me, eat out all my heart.
See what a frightful wound!
Ah! no, it cannot now be found.
So I snatch'd up my flowers in haste,
And round my head have traced;
But they're too bright and gay,
As I wear them in my hair,
They make my complexion more faded appear:
Away! away! away!
Yet I have been as fair as they;—
But should they be betray'd,—
Deprived of their bloom,
They'd sink down to the tomb,
And be pale and wan like me.
Be sure with them let my hearse be drest,
And strew them o'er my earthy bed,
Where I shall shortly lie:
When the cold turf supports my head,
I'll take my fill of rest;
The sun-beams gay and fine
Shall see no grief of mine,
Nor the worm hear me sigh.
But I pray you secret prove:
Tell it not to my love,
Nor let him that way go,—
For should he come in,
And see me look so thin,
His heart would burst in two.
No;—he has quite forgot,
He says he knows me not
Now in my misery.
And will you believe him too?
Has madness seiz'd your mind?
Tho you may think him true,
The faithless seas and wind,
Are not more false than he.
Methinks I can't but smile,
That he should you beguile.—
I heed not what he says,
But stop up my ears,
And am deaf to his prayers.
In vain his flatteries he displays,
And tells me I am fair
As the new-fallen snow,
That my keen eyes have pierc'd him through,
That me alone he loves.—No, no,
When once deceived, beware.
Fool that I was! I thought him true.—
Oh snatch him, snatch him from my view—
Yet ye tormentors set him free,
Give him his liberty:
The pain his conscience brings,
Is worse than all your racks of steel,
Your whips and cruel stings:
I know what he must feel.—
He swore, so holy was his flame,
That I should never know
A pleasure or a woe,
But he should feel the fame.
So bid the bride-maids come;
I'll be dress'd all in white:—
We'll take the damask room;—
'Tis long before 'tis night.—
What say you! Lost! 'tis all a jest;
It is not yet quite dark:
He stays till I'm undrest.—
Is that the morning lark?
Not yet return'd? where fled? where fled?
Alas, I knew it well;
I knew that he was dead,
Altho you would not tell.
I'm wond'rous cold: My hands are clay,—
My blood in frost is bound;—
Yet force me not away:
We'll lie in the same spot of ground:
Under this marble stone,
I shall enjoy him all alone.

Oh! help my Friends! her accents low
Her interrupted breath,
And these convulsive strugglings shew
The quick approach of death.

And are there powers in Heaven above?
Will they this sight behold?
Then pensive Virtue fearful rove,
Exulting Vice be bold.

The ebbing tide of life fleets fast,
Alas! She breathes no more—
Her mortal pilgrimage is past,
And mine will soon be o'er.